


Mending (No Easy Fix)

by junes_discotheque



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Depression, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Episode: s04e13 No Better To Be Safe Than Sorry, Recovery, Suicide Attempt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 15:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: Eliot wakes up to learn that they won the fight against the Monster, and everyone survived, but in the aftermath Quentin has admitted himself to an inpatient treatment center to deal with his mental health. (Or: Q and Eliot get the help they need, and maybe manage to build something good out of the wreckage)





	Mending (No Easy Fix)

**Author's Note:**

> My fix-it for 4x13.
> 
> This fic treats Q's actions in the mirror world as an unambiguous suicide attempt and deals with his efforts to recover. Because I wanted to give him the help he desperately needed all season.
> 
> Writing this was very cathartic.

Eliot wakes up slowly.

He hears whirring and beeping first, then voices, and then he feels pain--sharp in his stomach and dull across his chest and down his arms. He can’t feel his legs, and for a brief moment he panics before his foot twitches _hard_ and yeah, he definitely feels them, though now he wishes he didn’t.

It takes a little longer for him to open his eyes, and then he shuts them again as sunlight comes pouring into his brain. He’s assuming he’s in a hospital somewhere, or maybe the Brakebills infirmary. He remembers being outside on the ground, and he remembers Bambi standing over him and screaming, but not much else.

“Well, you have shit timing,” someone says. Eliot makes a groaning noise.

“Bright,” he grunts out. A moment later, the sun shining through his eyelids dims down to nothing. He opens his eyes again to see Professor Lipson standing over him, peering through her colored glass, frowning pensively.

“Margo stepped out for coffee. She’s going to kill me for letting you wake up alone, you know.”

Eliot manages a weak smile. _That’s his Bambi._ “Um. Has anyone else--”

“Your little gang’s been in and out. Margo should--You should ask her about them. When she gets back.” Which might be the worst thing she could say, because it sends Eliot down a desperate spiral--wondering who else might be hurt, and how bad, and if anyone--if-- _he_ \--

A smashing sound from the doorway makes him jump and then wish he didn’t, as pain lances through his abdomen. He turns his head, with effort, to see Margo--her pants covered in coffee stains from the empty cup now rolling around at her feet--staring at him like she’s going to cry.

“Oh, Jesus _fuck_ ,” she breathes, and then, to Professor Lipson, “Get out _now._ ”

The professor raises her hands in surrender. “Just trying to keep him alive, but whatever, your call,” she snarks. Margo ignores her.

“Hi, Bambi,” Eliot says. Talking also fucking hurts, and his voice sounds cracked and raw.

“You couldn’t wait two minutes for me to get back?” Her entire face is quivering. “Fuck, El, I wanted to be here when you--”

“It’s okay, just--”

“I didn’t want you to be alone--”

“Come _here,_ Bambi,” Eliot croaks, and suddenly she’s at his side, clutching his hand and burying her face in his shoulder.

“Don’t you _ever_ do that again, understand?” she says. “Try to die on me again and I’ll fucking kill you. _All of you_. **_Idiots._ **”

He manages to raise his arm enough to drop his hand on her head, though isn’t quite coordinated enough to run his fingers through her hair like he wants to. Margo makes a soft noise like a sob and raises her head. Her eyes are red and a little watery, but she looks determined.

“Okay. _Okay_. Updates.” She clears her throat. “Everyone’s okay, mostly. Kady’s doing something with the hedges and Alice… something with the library? I don’t know, honestly, I wasn’t paying much attention. Whatever.” Eliot raises an eyebrow at her. “What? I’ve been a little preoccupied watching you nap. _Anyway_. Julia and Penny-23 are fighting, I don’t know why, but I’m positive it’s because of something he did. Fen and Josh are still in Fillory, I think. The monster and his sister are very, very gone. Oh, and magic’s back. Full power.”

Eliot squeezes her hand. He knows her, he knows what she’s avoiding, and he absolutely hates that he has to ask because he knows he’s not going to like the answer.

He asks anyway. He has to.

“And Quentin?”

Margo sighs. “Quentin. He’s--it’s okay, El, he’s safe, it’s just--”

“Bambi, I _promise,_ whatever it is cannot be worse than what I’m imagining, so _please_.”

“It was rough, for him, the past months. Especially for him. He--we didn’t see it. He went into the mirror world with Alice and Penny-23 and they--they won, but--” She takes a long, deep breath. “Q cast a spell, and it went _bad_ , and Twenty-three said he just--stood there. He got him out, honey, I promise, Quentin's okay--” because Eliot’s starting to _panic--_ “but we all had a talk, after they got back. And since none of us are _remotely_ qualified to deal with this shit, he and Julia decided he should check himself in. He’s inpatient.”

Eliot swallows around the lump in his throat. “What are you saying?” he asks, his voice wavering. “Did--did he try to fucking _kill_ himself?”

“I--yeah, we think so.” Margo squeezes Eliot’s hand. “In retrospect, someone probably should have noticed. I was in Fillory for most of it but--after I got back--I should have noticed. I’m so sorry, El.”

“You. _All of you_. You were supposed to take care of him.” Eliot’s crying now. He hates it. He hates _all_ of this. “I wasn’t here to do it. I couldn’t-- _why wasn’t anyone taking care of him?_ ”

Margo grabs a tissue from her purse and presses it to Eliot’s face, wiping his eyes gently, but the tears don’t stop. “I don’t know. I thought Alice and Julia had it under control, but…” She trails off. “You can yell at them all you want once you get out of here. For now, Q’s safe.”

“He _tried to commit suicide,_ ” Eliot says. He would be shouting it, but his lungs aren’t quite that strong, so it comes out kind of hoarse and pathetic. “What--do they have him on lockdown? You know he hates that; you know his biggest fear is winding up right back there.” After the dream-prison incident, years ago when all of them were so much younger and more innocent, Eliot and Margo had gotten Quentin wasted on daiquiris and learned exactly where he had been trapped. Eliot had sworn he would never have to face that again.

“From what Julia told me, he’s afraid of getting locked up for being crazy. She found a hospital with a magician on staff, so he can be honest without anyone thinking he’s, like, schitzo. I promise, El, it’s okay. He _wants_ to be there. As much as we can tell he wants anything, anyway.” She reaches up and runs her fingers through Eliot’s curls. His hair is so long now - he hopes someone cuts it before he has to see it in a mirror. “Q’s safe, Eliot. He’s focusing on healing. So should you.”

Eliot shifts in his bed and winces. “Okay,” he concedes. He still isn’t sure whether he should trust any of them with his Q, but it doesn’t look like he has a choice, since he’s probably stuck in this bed for awhile. “I need you to visit him then, Bambi. Like, right now.” She looks like she’s about to argue, and Eliot glares at her. “I’m serious. I’m fine. If you can’t stand the thought of me being alone for a few hours, you can make someone bring me snacks. But I need you to go see him, and tell him I’m awake, and I’m okay, and I’ll see him as soon as I can. Tell him--”

For a second, Eliot wants to tell Margo to tell Q that he loves him, but stops himself. He wants to say that himself, in person, once he jailbreaks out of here.

“--Tell him I’m so fucking proud of him. For being so strong. For getting help. I--”

“I’ll tell him,” Margo assures him. “And I’ll get Penny-23 to bring you some decent food. Maybe it’ll keep him from hovering over Julia for awhile. Extend his life.” She stands up and bends over the bed to kiss Eliot’s forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promises.

And then Eliot’s alone.

\--

Quentin isn’t alone.

For the first day or so after he’d checked in, his mind ran in an endless loop of _what if they put me here so they don’t have to deal with me anymore and I’m left alone to rot and what if Eliot dies and everyone’s forgotten about me so no one tells me and they don’t want to deal with that either because I already tried to kill myself once and if he dies--_

Over and over again.

Until Kady showed up. Not the first person Quentin would have expected, but he figured Alice and Julia couldn’t deal with him yet and Margo was probably busy with Eliot and Penny-23 kind of hated him, so. They probably sent Kady as the last option.

It had been weird. Kady had been twitchy the entire time, and Quentin tried to joke about her breaking him out-- “you know, return the favor?”-- which didn’t go over well, but he eventually got her talking about her work with the hedge witches, and spent the next hour gloriously distracted from the gray walls and miserable residents as she told him about the international exchange she had started to set up after the cooperative spell was such a success. Getting safehouses to work together to grow their magic instead of fighting. Quentin had actually teared up a little at how hopeful she sounded, which she didn’t seem to know what to do with, but it was a bigger spark of emotion than Quentin had felt in--weeks. Months, maybe.

He hung onto it for awhile after she left.

After Kady came Julia (human still, like she’d chosen when she was dying and Penny-23 Incepted her, but she’d gotten her magic back; apparently dealing with Quentin’s bullshit had scared the magic back into her, which Quentin found unnerving), and then Alice (even _weirder,_ but luckily she didn’t force him to have any kind of conversation about their relationship status; she just told him about the work she was doing rebuilding the Library into something less fascist, and let him complain about the hospital library refusing to lend him the next _ASOIAF_ book because it had too much death and, like, might give him _ideas,_ or something), and then Penny-23 Traveled in with Oreos in the middle of the night and Quentin thanked him for saving his life and realized, with a shock, that he actually _meant_ it.

Group therapy is a joke, but the doctor leading Group is a magician and doesn’t push him to say much at all. His private sessions with her are marginally more helpful, since he doesn’t have to translate into Muggle, but there are things he’s been holding back and he knows she knows that.

 _Peaches and plums, motherfucker_.

Yeah. He feels kind of bad about it, actually, which is new for him. Usually he doesn’t care about lying to his therapists. But he actually _likes_ this one. Dr. Calloway is tall and pretty with red hair and looks a little like Jane Chatwin, and it’s. Reassuring. So he tries, with her. Less lying, more obfuscating. It’s a process.

And as always, there’s Eliot. His friends have been giving him updates every time they come to visit, but for days, it’s the same. _He hasn’t woken up yet, but he’s stable._

It’s been nine days since Quentin checked in. He’s been taking his meds like a good boy, and they’ve actually been helpful (a revelation he has every single time he goes off and back on like the world’s dumbest goldfish). He has a pile of watercolors on his nightstand ( _realism vs. abstract expressionism_ ) from art therapy, most of which are terrible. At some point, they were instructed to paint a picture of _home,_ and Quentin ended up frozen and useless in his chair for a solid ten minutes until Dr. Calloway came over and talked him through a picture of the Physical Cottage while his fingers kept trying to paint the little home he’d shared with Eliot in Fillory and his brain rebelled at him. He felt terribly stupid through the whole thing, as his mind went in familiar little circles of loathing: how he couldn’t even complete this simple task without needing someone to hold his hand; how he’d never been any good at art to begin with; how he sucks at even trying not to suck at being alive.

Still, the picture came out pretty decent. It’s at the top of his stack.

He’s also memorized the rotation. Nine days means Kady is coming again today, assuming they’re keeping to the pattern, but if something comes up it might be someone else. The last thing he wants right now is to be a burden to any of them. He hopes if there’s an emergency they worry about that before coming to deal with Quentin’s broken brain.

As he’s sliding his shoes on (no laces, of course, confiscated the moment his hospital bracelet was fixed around his wrist) an orderly knocks on the doorframe and pokes his head in.

“Hey, Brett.”

“Q,” Brett says, smiling like they’re friends. “You have a visitor. Haven’t seen this one before--how the hell are you getting all these gorgeous women to come cry on your shoulder?”

“Chicks love crazy guys,” Quentin deadpans, and then realizes. _Haven’t seen this one before._ “Wait--who’s here?”

\--

The entire room spins and Quentin ends up collapsed on the floor when he sees Margo, her eye makeup smeared and her usually-immaculate hair a windswept mess. Which means she was rushing, and if she was rushing--

Her arms wrap around him and he realizes she’s kneeling in front of him.

“Eliot’s awake,” she says. “He’s fine. He woke up. It’s okay, Q.”

 _Awake. Eliot’s awake. Eliot’s alive, and he’s awake, and Margo rushed here from his bedside to tell me._ Quentin almost hates himself for missing it and making her leave him.

Almost.

He closes his eyes and pictures the _Muntjac_ , imagines standing there with the depression monster like he did so, so long ago. Faces it down. _Eliot was hurt. I am sick. Margo is here because they matter to me, and I matter to them, and I am not a burden._

Slowly, Quentin opens his eyes. “Can we--off the floor?” he asks. She laughs, high and watery, and wipes tears from her eyes as she helps him stand. They move over to the sofas instead, Margo sitting with her legs crossed at her knees and Quentin twisted into a half-pretzel.

“Okay. Tell me everything,” Quentin says.

Margo grins. “He’s _Eliot._ He’s a little weak, still, probably won’t get out of the infirmary for a couple days, but he’s _back._ We did it, Q.” She looks so fucking happy, Quentin can’t help but smile back. It feels weird. He’s not sure when the last time he actually smiled was. There’s not much smiling, in this place.

It hits him like a ton of bricks. “Did you--did you tell him where I am?” he asks, terrified of the answer.

“Yeah, Q, I had to. I told him what you were going to do, and I told him you were here, and do you want to know what he said?”

 _No._ “What?”

“He said he’s, and I’m quoting here, ‘so _fucking_ proud of you’. Which I co-sign, by the way.” She rolls her shoulders. “You know I have about fifty terrible things I could say to you for pulling that shit in the first place, but El’s right. You’re braver than any of us, for getting help.”

Quentin, who had been struck speechless just a moment before from Margo’s words, laughs. It sounds a little deranged, but then, Quentin hadn’t laughed in a long time. “Yeah, turns out self-medicating isn’t actually helpful,” he says.

“Yeah. Fun, though,” Margo says.

“Not really.”

She doesn’t argue. In the silence, Quentin kicks himself for being such a _bummer,_ then kicks the Quentin who kicked him, and thinks, _fuck off._

“There was more, I think, that Eliot wanted to tell you,” Margo goes on. “But he wanted to tell you in person, so. Expect that in a couple days. Or sooner, if he manages to break out.”

Quentin nods, trying not to think about what _more_ might mean. Everything’s a little overwhelming right now, even with the anti-anxiety meds working to keep his brain from spiraling out. “If you want to go tell the others Eliot’s back--”

“You were the only one he actually wanted me to tell,” Margo says. “Though I did text Twenty-three that he’s awake and wants snacks. But who knows if he’ll tear his eyes away from Julia’s ass long enough to read it.” She folds her hands on her knee. “So, guess you’re stuck with me. What do you do for fun in here?”

He stares at her. “Uh. There’s some board games behind the nurse’s station? We only have two people, though.”

“What, you don’t have any nutcase friends you could--” She stops. “That was shitty.”

Quentin shrugs. “I dunno. Talking to people in here is weird. But, you know, Julia and Alice and Kady and Penny visit. They have a rotation.”

“Good,” Margo says. She presses a warm palm to Quentin’s cheek. “I didn’t--want you to be left alone in here. It’s just. Eliot.”

He covers her hand with his. “No, I get it. Everything kind of went to hell at once. We’re all doing our best.”

She laughs. “Well, I’m glad you’re listening to your therapist.”

Quentin feels light as he thinks, _yeah, me too._

\--

He sees Dr. Calloway that evening after dinner. Kady had shown up that afternoon, while Margo was still visiting, and the three of them played a version of Monopoly (Star Trek Edition) that was mostly brazen cheating with the occasional break for subtle cheating while Kady recruited Margo (and her fairy eye) to help with a safehouse that suddenly and mysteriously vanished. The doctor sees his lightness the second he enters, and Quentin doesn’t bother with his usual five minutes of bullshitting.

“Eliot woke up,” he says, delirious with it, as he drops into his chair.

And, for the first time, he tells her the story of time travel, and a quest, and an entire lifetime. He thinks this is what a _breakthrough_ feels like.

\--

It’s another three days before Eliot comes to see him. In the meantime, Julia visits, and then Alice (acting weirdly cold towards him, though he tells himself that might just be the Library’s dreariness rubbing off on her), and then Julia again--technically before visiting hours, but she gets Penny-23 to Travel her into Quentin’s room while he’s getting dressed--not that anyone can tell the difference. Pajamas into sweats, but it’s the ritual of the thing that matters. And not walking around in sweat stains.

“Sorry, it’s early, I just had to--we were out getting brunch, because that’s apparently something we do now, and I _had_ to show you--” Julia fumbles her phone out of her pocket and presses _play_ on a video.

It’s a minute and a half long. Two labrador puppies are playing in a fountain, while their owners desperately try to get them out. One of the owners, a tall, lanky teenage boy, ends up falling headfirst into the fountain. The puppies immediately pounce on him.

“So we probably missed our reservation but there’s a bagel place--” Julia stops. She pushes Quentin’s bangs out of his eyes. “Hey. _Q._ ”

He’s crying. Full-on sobbing. In the middle of his room in a psych hospital, while his friends stare at him. He hasn’t cried in--shit, he hasn’t cried in _months,_ he thinks. And now he’s breaking down because Julia brought him a video of puppies.

She takes his hands and sits on the bed with him. He can sort of see Penny-23 shifting awkwardly for a moment, but then he comes and sits, stiffly, on Quentin’s other side.

“Do you want to talk?” Julia asks. Quentin shakes his head and buries his face in her shoulder. She strokes his hair.

His thoughts aren’t racing, he realizes. Normally, about right now would be when he’d start slipping into another spiral of self-recrimination and loathing, but… there’s nothing. He just _exists,_ in this time and place, and his brain has no commentary. Quentin breathes, and slowly, his tears dry up and he pulls away from her.

Julia’s shirt is soaked. He laughs a little--he’s embarrassed, he realizes, but it’s nothing like the hot shame that usually follows him around. He tuts out a quick drying spell, which gets her to make this little pleased expression she always got when they were kids, the few times he managed to figure something out before she did.

“I think I’m starting to feel things again,” Quentin says. “It’s been getting stronger since Margo told me Eliot’s awake. It’s kind of--I don’t know how to explain it. It’s a lot.”

“I’m sure it is,” Julia says.

“It’s like--I know I’m supposed to be in here for _me,_ getting better _for myself,_ but I remembered--I want to get better for _him,_ too.”

Julia gives him a soft, understanding smile, which quickly breaks into a huge grin. “Speaking of Eliot,” she says. “Margo said they’re releasing him today. She’s going to call the hospital later to get them on the--uh-- _official_ visitors schedule.”

_Today._

_Oh._

“Shit,” Quentin says. It comes out somewhere between happy and terrified. Which--yeah, is pretty much where he’s at.

Penny-23 touches his shoulder awkwardly. “You okay, man?”

“I--yeah. Fine. Great, actually. Just.” He breathes. “Holy _shit._ ”

They don’t push him for any more than that. They just let him sit with it for awhile, as if they have nothing better to do than hang out in a concrete room in a building full of crazy people while Quentin tries to get his slightly-less-broken-than-two-weeks-ago brain to wrap around the idea of seeing Eliot.

He thinks he’d have a much easier time of it if he could actually see _Eliot’s_ face in his mind, and not the Monster.

 _That_ thought is starting to send him into a little bit of a panic when he hears a banging at his door and Brett’s ever-cheerful voice calling “Breakfast!” down the hall.

“I think that’s your cue,” Quentin says, trying for casual.

“Yeah,” Julia says. They stand up and she pulls him into another tight hug. “I’ll come by with more puppies tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Kady’s day.”

“Yeah, but _puppies._ ” She grins, squeezes Quentin’s hand one last time, and stands back into Penny-23. A blink, and they’re gone.

Quentin slips his shoes on, changes his sweatshirt, and, with a deep breath, heads out to face the ward. He offers a small wave to Anna, the girl in the room across the hall who arrived two days after him and, until yesterday, claimed she was involuntary. She had finally admitted in Group that she called the cops on herself, and that she was glad Drunk Anna had bravery that Sober Anna didn’t.

He knows, a little, how that goes.

After morning meds and breakfast (which mostly consists of fighting down a blueberry yogurt and picking anxiously at an English muffin and hoping he managed to eat enough that his meds won’t make him sick), Quentin asks to see Dr. Calloway. He’s told she’s at her outpatient clinic until noon, but will be in after lunch, and does Quentin think he can wait until then?

He shrugs. The nurse offers to let the doctor know Quentin is looking for her once she arrives. Quentin almost tells the nurse not to bother, but since _asking for shit he needs_ is one of the things he’s supposed to be working on, he agrees.

About an hour later, Brett comes by to give him an activity book and tells him to expect a visitor around three that afternoon. Quentin thanks him, and tries not to panic, and ends up spending much of the rest of the morning staring off into space and ignoring the activity book. Anna actually comes over and sits with him for a little while, looking just as dazed and not saying anything, though that’s more or less how she usually is. How Quentin usually is, too, when he’s not in therapy or visiting with his friends. He wonders if Anna’s had any visitors, and realizes how far he’s been stuck in his own head. He knows nothing about any of these people-- _fuck_ , shouldn’t he?

He breathes. No. He’s here to focus on his own recovery, as is everyone else. This isn’t the high school cafeteria; he doesn’t have to _make friends._

The activity book has stickers.

\--

Dr. Calloway gets back just after lunch (a ham sandwich and applesauce, and a brownie that tastes like powder and makes Quentin miss Josh more than he thought possible). She sees Quentin right away, which makes him feel a little guilty for monopolizing her time, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“So, Eliot’s coming to visit. He’ll be here around three, I think,” Quentin says, before he even sits down. Dr. Calloway looks up. Her expression is vague.

“You’ve been waiting a long time to see him,” she says. He can tell she’s picking her words carefully. He wishes she wouldn’t. “It’s natural to be anxious.”

Quentin rolls his shoulders. “I’m not--anxious, exactly. I’m…” He struggles. She waits, patient, and doesn’t say a word to help him. “He wasn’t Eliot. For a long time. And I keep telling myself--of course, when I see him, it’ll be _Eliot,_ I’ll be able to tell right away it’s him, but--what if I can’t?” He shudders. “What if I still see the Monster?”

Dr. Calloway folds her hands on her desk. “I wish I could tell you exactly what you’ll see.”

“You said I have PTSD,” Quentin says.

“Yes.”

“Do you think I’ll have a flashback?”

“You might,” the doctor says. “We can talk, in the abstract, about how you felt when the Monster was walking around in his skin. About how you feel now that the Monster is gone. But until you and he are in the same room, there’s no way to predict how you’ll feel then. I’m sorry, Quentin.”

He shrugs. “Guess I’ll just have to hope for the best.”

“If it would help, I can sit with you.”

Quentin shakes his head. “No, I can’t--you have so many patients, I don’t want--”

Dr. Calloway smiles. “I’ll rephrase. I think it would be best if I sit in, at least to begin with. I do not want you facing this alone.”

That--that helps. That it isn’t his choice; that he’s not asking for a favor, but conceding to an instruction. And--he wants her there. At least at first. So that if he _does_ see the Monster, she can get him out of there.

But, _gods,_ he hopes he sees Eliot.

\--

So that brings him to--now. Curled up on an armchair, Dr. Calloway in a folding chair next to him, a Styrofoam cup of decaf coffee in his hand and waiting. There’s a second chair across from him, for Eliot. He hopes it’s okay. His anxiety keeps ricocheting from _I don’t want to see the Monster_ to _I don’t want Eliot to see me in here._ Quentin picks at the sleeve of his hoodie, fraying the edges of the cuff.

Watching the door just makes it worse, so he stares into his coffee cup and tries to listen past the buzzing in his ears. Footsteps, back and forth. Patients and doctors.

And then--

“Q?”

Quentin’s breath catches in his throat. He swallows, hard, past the lump, and finally looks up.

It’s _Eliot._ Slightly worse for wear; his face is pale and there are dark circles under his eyes and he’s leaning heavily on a cane, but he’s cut his hair to just below his ears, and he’s back in his own clothes. Black pants, maroon patterned shirt, charcoal vest, navy tie. He looks so fucking beautiful Quentin could _cry_.

“Uh,” he says instead, suddenly very conscious of the fact that he’s in gray sweats and his hair is greasy and he hasn’t shaved in a couple days. He puts his coffee cup on the side table and draws his knees to his chest. “Hi.”

Quentin wants to kick himself, but Eliot just looks vaguely amused. “May I sit?” he asks, and then slides semi-gracefully into the extra chair. He turns his considerable charm to Dr. Calloway. “You must be his doctor.”

“Amy Calloway,” she says, offering a hand.

“Makes me wonder if _I_ should have brought backup.”

Quentin pulls his knees in closer, letting his hair fall in his face. He wishes it were longer. He can’t hide as well as he used to. His heart is pounding in his chest.

Eliot reaches towards him, and he _flinches,_ and he hates himself for it. Eliot’s expression goes dark and Quentin wishes he could say _no, no, it’s not the Monster, I’m not seeing the Monster,_ but thinks flinching from _Eliot_ is probably just worse.

“Sorry,” Quentin mutters. “I didn’t--”

“Hey,” Eliot says. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Quentin takes a slow, deep breath, and looks up. His posture relaxes, and he feels his nerves going with them. “I’m glad you’re okay. And you’re _you_ ,” he says. “Eliot.”

" _I'm_ glad to see you’re not dead. Guess we’re really going to owe Twenty-three for that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says.

Next to him, Dr. Calloway stands up and touches his shoulder gently. “If you need anything…”

“Thanks,” Quentin says, relieved. He’s glad he agreed to have her here, but now—now he just wants to be with Eliot.

Except he still has no idea what to say, and now he’s completely alone. With Eliot. Who’s still looking at him like—like _that._ Hooded eyes and downturned mouth.

Quentin coughs a little. “So. How are you. Uh. Feeling?”

“Pretty good, other than the massive gash in my stomach,” Eliot says, pressing a hand to his gut. “Being human again is weird. Everything’s loud and smells like shit.” He shrugs. “I’m getting used to that part, at least. Watching my friends flinch away every time they see me is… less easy.”

Quentin shrinks in on himself. Fuck, he _knew_ he’d hurt Eliot. “Sorry.”

“I can barely believe I’m here most days, you know? I wake up and think I’m right back in my own head,” he continues on as if Quentin hadn’t spoken.

“You’re here,” Quentin whispers. “I promise, you’re here.”

“Yeah, in this _place._ ” Eliot shudders. “Fuck, Q, what were you _thinking?_ ”

He takes a minute to roll the question through his mind. Allows his anxiety to pick at it, his depression to maul it, and then picks it up and dusts it off and _breathes_. “Honestly? I don’t really remember much. Suffocating darkness; that’s about it. I remember doing stuff, but—I can’t really remember how or why. The last couple weeks before we got you back are like—watching a silent movie, but without the dialogue cards.” Quentin shrugs helplessly.

“So--you don’t remember trying to _kill yourself_ ?” Eliot’s voice is getting a little louder, a little higher, right on the edge of a giggle. “What the _fuck_.”

“My brain was kind of broken, El,” Quentin says. Flat and even. “I remember feeling nothing. Maybe a bit of despair. But mostly nothing, and after I cast that spell, I just felt calm.”

“ _Quentin_ \--”

Both of them jump, suddenly, as someone coughs near them. Quentin looks up to see Dr. Calloway clearing her throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, “but you’re getting a little loud.”

“Sorry,” Quentin mutters. “We’ll keep it down.”

Dr. Calloway doesn’t look convinced, but just then, a nurse waves her over. She sighs and gives them a stern look, and then Quentin and Eliot are alone again.

Eliot’s expression is hard. Quentin tries to focus on that, on how much he’s different from the Monster, who, even angry, had always had a sort of dreamy quality to his face and movements. _This_ Eliot is _real_ \--he knows exactly what’s going on around him, and he clearly hates it.

“I tried so hard, you know,” Eliot says. “When I was trapped in my mind. I tried so hard to find a way back, to find something _useful_. But mostly I just--waited. For _you_ to find _me._ I had so much faith you would.”

“I--” Quentin starts, then pauses, rubbing at his eyes. “I had. After you broke through. I had so much faith we’d succeed. I did-- _things._ ” He shudders. “It doesn’t matter. I thought I could get you back. And then, at some point, I didn’t.”

Eliot shifts a little closer to the edge of his chair. He presses his hand to his wound and leans forward, slowly, and Quentin breathes. He’s not scared of him. “Why did you stop?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin says, and that’s the truth. “I guess--after Penny went into the Monster’s mind and found you, and we found out the body he was building wasn’t his, and then the Monster got the last piece of it--that was it, I thought. The end of the road. Margo showed up with her axes a little while after that. She had hope. She had a plan. I--didn’t. I went along with whatever, but I didn’t really care, because. You were gone. And my brain had already broken and I didn’t know how to put it back together again.”

Quentin looks at Eliot, trying to pour all of his hope and desperation into his expression. He wants-- _needs--_ Eliot to understand. But Eliot just looks angry, and Quentin has no idea what to do about it. “But you got me back. You and Margo saved me. And for what? So you could just go kill yourself anyway?”

“It’s not like I went and tried to slice my wrists open,” Quentin snaps. “I was trying to _help_ . I was trying to save _everyone_.”

“Which is _bullshit._ And you know it. Everyone knows it. It’s why you’re _here,_ and we’re having this conversation in this _place_ instead of at _home_. You always did want to die a hero. You just found a convenient excuse to make it happen.”

“ _Excuse me._ ” Dr. Calloway is back, standing over them with her arms crossed over her chest. “I understand this is--emotional, for both of you. And I respect the necessity of working through what happened. But I _cannot_ have you arguing in the middle of my ward. And,” she turns to Eliot, “I won’t have _you_ upsetting my patient.”

“Oh, excuse _me_ , then,” Eliot says, and struggles to his feet. His cane slips twice before he manages to get it under him. “I don’t want to _upset_ anyone. I’ll be going now. See you, Q.”

Quentin buries his face in his knees and doesn’t watch him walk away. He thinks he should probably be crying at what a disaster they are, but he’s not. He’s just--

He’s--

\--

Dr. Calloway walks him out.

“I understand your body was inhabited by a malevolent god for the past several months,” she says, right away, and Eliot stares at her. “Dealing with that must be difficult.”

Eliot blinks. “It’s--I guess? I’ve mostly been in the hospital. My friend Margo, she brought me some clothes, and I came straight here. You know, so I could really fuck things up worse than they already were. I do that a lot.”

Q’s doctor gives him a half-smile. “Give it time,” she says. “Trust me, that wasn’t the worst post-attempt meeting I’ve ever seen. He’ll want you to try again, and you should.” They stop at reception and Eliot signs out. Dr. Calloway reaches behind the desk and grabs a card, which she presses into Eliot’s hand. “Quentin isn’t the only one who needs to heal, by the way. I have time tomorrow morning at ten. You should come by.”

“You want to talk to me about Quentin?” Eliot asks.

Dr. Calloway smiles and shakes her head. “I want to talk to you about _you._ ”

“Oh,” Eliot says.

“Think about it.” The doctor touches his shoulder, gently, and then turns and heads back down the hall to the main ward, leaving Eliot standing awkwardly in the lobby.

He leans up against the reception desk and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He has one unread text, from Bambi: _Good luck_ followed by thumbs up, eggplant, water droplets. He texts back: _Fucked up. Send someone to check on him tonight._

Then he texts Penny-23: _Ready._

A second later, Twenty-three Travels in. “For the last time, Waugh, I’m not your personal fucking Uber,” he grouses; a sentiment that Eliot thinks would be much more convincing if he hadn’t appeared so quickly.

“Just get me out of here,” Eliot says. Twenty-three’s face softens a bit, because Eliot’s just that pathetic, and he gently touches his forearm.

They land in a strange apartment. The penthouse, Eliot guesses; Margo told him the story of how Kady got this place and why they’re now all crashing here. He doesn’t mind. After spending so many months trapped in the Happy Place, he’s a little afraid of how he might react to the Physical Cottage.

Especially since he’s _not_ reacting well to _anything._

_Fuck. Q._

Eliot drops his cane and sinks into the massive couch in the middle of the penthouse living room. He buries his face in his hands and wishes, more than anything, that he could erase the last hour from existence. Go back, go _all the way_ back, try again--say what he’d wanted to say from the start.

_I love you. I’m proud of you._

_I love you._

Before his stupid, fucked up mouth and his awful brain got in the way of his heart and _broke_ the one thing he was supposed to _fix_. Once again, Eliot Waugh, too fucking scared to tell Quentin how he feels, so he just attacked. Made things worse. _Gods,_ he made things _so much worse._

Like he always does.

“El, honey?”

Margo sounds far too sympathetic for what Eliot’s done. He turns into her anyway, lets her wrap an arm around his shoulders, and sighs into her hair.

“What happened?”

“What always happens?” Eliot snorts. “I was stupid. I hurt him. I always hurt him.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“I yelled at him. I might have undone the last two weeks of his therapy.”

Margo smacks his shoulder. Eliot draws away from her, more offended than hurt. “Hey! Ow.”

“Honestly, I’d be more shocked if you _didn’t_ completely cock it up,” she says. “And I doubt your boy’s surprised you’re a disaster. So here’s what we’re going to do. Twenty-three’s agreed to do a check-in, since Kady’s got the rest of our little team running a heist tonight. You and I are going to order in from that French place I used to test-run boys our first year, and tomorrow you’re going to _pussy up_ and you’re going to see him again.”

Eliot shakes his head. “Q’s therapist gave me her card,” he says. “She--I think she gave me an appointment? Ten a.m. tomorrow.”

Margo looks surprised, but pleased. “Good. So you’ll talk to Q’s doctor, and you’ll convince her to let you talk to him.”

“And if I mess up again?” Eliot runs his hand through his hair. He’s gone through an entire bottle of shampoo and half a bottle of conditioner and his curls _still_ feel greasy. He wonders if he’ll ever really feel like himself again, or if he’ll just have to accept that this is how he is, now. “I love him, Bambi.”

She reaches up and cups his face. “I know. And you’re going to tell him.”

“What if--”

“Shh.” She covers his mouth with her hand. “Nod for me.” He does. “We break things, El. And then we fix them. This is the fixing part.”

He believes her. What else can he do?

\--

Quentin lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling, drawing patterns with his mind in the cracked plaster.

After Eliot… _left,_ Dr. Calloway had taken him into her office and made him a cup of tea. “I have some paperwork,” she’d said, “so I’m going to do that, and you’re going to drink your tea, and when you’re ready, we’ll talk. Take your time.”

He knew she meant it--when he first started seeing her, Quentin had often tried to start speaking before his brain was really ready to form words, and she had noticed every time. She’d stopped him, quieted him, told him that when she told him to take his time, she _meant_ it. So, now, he didn’t rush the process. He tucked his left foot under him and pulled his right knee up to his chest, his foot resting on the edge of the chair, and sipped at his tea.

He was halfway through his second cup when he finally had the words.

“I thought it would be like, this fairytale thing, you know?” he said. “When I still had hope we’d get him back. I’d look at the monster and I’d picture it--we’d figure out how to get Eliot back, and he’d look at me, and he’d touch me, and--” Quentin had started crying, then, finally-- “He’d kiss me. Maybe it was stupid to think he loved me, but fuck it, it was _my_ fantasy, and in my fantasy he kissed me.”

Dr. Calloway handed him a box of tissues. He took one, gratefully, and wiped at his eyes. “So you spent months picturing the perfect reunion,” she said, “and it turns out real life is messier.”

“I forgot how fucking _mean_ he can be,” Quentin said. “I think--I didn’t have _him,_ just memories of him, and I wanted to hold onto the best ones. And now I don’t know if I’ve been pining after a false memory, or. Or what.” He waved the damp tissue in an awkward half-flail. “But even if he _is_ that mean, I still love him.”

“Would you be willing to try again?” Dr. Calloway asked.

Quentin stared at her. “I have to, don’t I?” he shot back. “This isn’t--We don’t just _end here._ I almost fucking _died,_ and by some--some fucking miracle, I didn’t manage it. That has to mean something.”

The therapist got a smile on her face that was downright conspiratorial. _Jane fucking Chatwin indeed,_ Quentin thought. “Excellent. I asked Eliot to come in tomorrow at ten--no, not to talk about you, just to talk. I promise if I could give him a referral I would have; I don’t know if it’s especially healthy for you to have the same therapist. But, not to brag, I’m the only _competent_ magician in my field, and I don’t think we want him seeing a doctor who isn’t one at all.”

“It’s okay,” Quentin said. “I think--You’ve been helping me a lot, you know. He should get to have that, too, with what he’s been through.”

They had talked a little more after that, and Quentin had gone to dinner with a flicker of hope in his chest. But now, in the near-dark, with nothing but his mind replaying the conversation over and over to keep him company, Quentin wonders if he didn’t fuck up a little, too. If he and Eliot aren’t both going to just keep fucking up, over and over again, until they’ve worn each other to dust.

“You know, just because you’re stuck in here doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep your wards up.”

Quentin rolls over and stares. Penny-23 is standing in his room, holding a plastic bag and looking somewhere between awkward and annoyed. He sighs. “Sorry, I’ll--hang on.” Quentin pushes himself to sitting, cross-legged on his blankets, and tuts out the spell for his mental wards. Penny’s right, he realizes; he’s been letting them slip. “Good?”

“Yeah. Look, I heard Eliot fucked up.”

“We both kinda did,” Quentin says, and Penny snorts.

“Not surprising. Here.” He hands over the plastic bag. Quentin pokes through it; it’s mostly snacks and a couple packs of cigarettes. He’d thought, briefly, in the beginning, about trying to quit while he’s in here, but quickly discovered smoking is the easiest way to get extra time outside, so he hasn’t bothered.

“Thanks.”

Penny shrugs and sits down on the bed, crossing his legs to mirror Quentin’s pose. “We figured you shouldn’t be alone after--well. This afternoon. Julia wanted to come but Kady has her and Alice doing something massive and probably illegal that they won’t tell me about. I seem to recall she promised you puppies tomorrow morning, though.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “How are you and Julia, anyway? Last I heard, you two were still fighting, but you seemed okay this morning.”

“We’re working on it,” Penny says. “She was pretty pissed about me axing her in the back and then forcing her to choose between goddess and human. I’m not sure if she would’ve picked human if she’d had longer to sit on it, but we were rushed.” He shrugs. “The other option would’ve been to choose for her, which I wasn’t going to do. Anyway, she was more upset about the situation in general than angry at me in the specific.”

“Some of us should get to be happy,” Quentin says. “I hope you do.”

“Thanks, man. You too.”

Quentin has a sarcastic, self-deprecating response on his tongue, but remembers just in time that he’s supposed to be working on not giving voice to those thoughts; Penny-23 thinks he should get to be happy, and that should be Quentin’s goal, too, whatever that looks like. Instead, he digs around in the bag and comes up with a package of Twizzlers. He rips it open right down the middle and offers it to Penny, who takes three and hands it back over. “Thanks for this,” Quentin says, slowly peeling his own Twizzler apart. “The food in here is really fucking bland, and that’s from _me_.”

“I didn’t think it was possible to make food too bland for Quentin Coldwater,” Penny says.

“Somehow, they managed.” Quentin smiles. Penny looks vaguely amused. It’s more than a little weird, having Penny-23--or any version of Penny--actually being nice to him, and there’s still part of him that figures it’s probably either pity or a favor to Julia, but he accepts the kindness anyway.

\--

Agreeing to come here was a mistake.

Eliot shifts his weight slightly to take the pressure off his cane arm. The reception area is empty except for a terrifying woman at the front desk who had taken Eliot’s name and called Dr. Calloway to collect him. He wonders if it’s too late to run away and forget this whole thing.

But running away would mean losing Q, and Eliot--he’s not ready to give up on that yet. Not while he still might have a chance to fix it. He tells himself he’s faced scarier things before, won harder battles, solved more impossible challenges, but right now he’s having a hard time remembering what any of those were.

“Eliot?”

Dr. Calloway strides up to him, her nude heels clicking on the linoleum floor. “Uh,” Eliot starts. “Hi again.”

“I’m so glad you decided to come back,” she says. “Follow me; we’ll talk in my office. The residents have art therapy for the next half hour, and then, if you’re feeling up to it and he agrees, you can see Quentin.”

“Oh,” Eliot says. His heart clenches in his chest. “All right.”

“Good.”

She leads him down the bright, impersonal concrete hall, past the heavy doors leading to the main ward, and into her private office. It’s small, with white walls and a black office chair behind a bare oak desk. In front of the desk is a plush blue armchair, which Eliot sinks into while Dr. Calloway heads over to the sideboard and pours a glass of water. Eliot takes it silently.

“So,” she says, taking a seat. “Where do you want to start?”

“I fucked up,” Eliot says. “With Q. I spent so long thinking about what I’d say if I ever got back to him, but I never _expected_ \-- So tell me how to fix it.”

Dr. Calloway sighs. “I know Quentin’s at the front of your mind, and I promise, we’ll get to him. But this session needs to be about _you,_ first and foremost.”

“So, what, you want me to tell you about my childhood?”

The doctor shrugs. “If that’s what you want to talk about, yes.”

“Hard pass.” Eliot sighs. Fuck it. If Q can be brave enough to come to this place and bare his soul in therapy for two entire weeks, Eliot can be brave enough to do it for half an hour. “Okay, so. I ended up getting possessed by this Monster because I was trying to stop Quentin from doing something stupid and self-sacrificing and basically suicidal. And because even though I ran away from him, I couldn’t stand the thought of living without him.”

“You didn’t know what would happen.”

“No,” Eliot allows. “But I knew there was a high likelihood shit would get even more fucked than it already was, because that’s just our lives. Every victory comes with an even greater loss. It’s no wonder Q wanted to make it all stop.” He pauses and shoots Dr. Calloway an apologetic look. “Sorry. Not helpful.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “I don’t want you to hold back how you’re feeling.”

“Right. So anyway, then I was a prisoner in my own head for several months while my body did all kinds of terrible shit, and now I’m here.”

Dr. Calloway folds her hands on her desk. “How do you feel about what it did?”

“The Monster?” Eliot shrugs. “I mean, I don’t really _know_ what he did. I managed to break out once, for like five seconds, just long enough to tell Q I was alive and stuck in there, but otherwise… yeah, I was pretty much just stuck in there. Did some poking around in the Monster’s memories, though I think my intel just made things worse. Q said he lost hope completely after they found out what I’d learned.” He twitches his fingers in his lap, a half-aborted levitation tut he always found comforting. Magic isn’t much of a comfort anymore. “I haven’t asked the others what my body got up to. What would be the point? Honestly, I think I’m lucky I don’t remember. Less traumatic that way, and all the gods in the multiverse know we’ve got _more_ than enough of that.”

“Maybe less traumatic,” Dr. Calloway says. “But it can’t be easy, knowing your body was doing things without your consent.”

Eliot laughs. “Oh, it was nothing like that. I didn’t ask for _details_ , but I know--they swore to me, it wasn’t anything like _that._ Just your standard murder and mayhem.” And thank _fuck_ it wasn’t anything like _that._ Julia had said, when she and Penny came to visit him in the hospital during those three days between waking up and finally being let out, that the Monster had been a little _clingy_ with Quentin, had threatened him, but had never--

If it had, Eliot’s not sure he could live with himself.

“How are you feeling now that you’re back?”

Eliot takes a minute to think about that one. “Weird,” he finally settles on. “The world is--sometimes, it’s too real, and sometimes it’s not real enough. Every time I have deja vu, I worry that I’m still trapped in my own head, reliving my memories. Sleeping kind of sucks, too. Waking up…” He shrugs. “I think I’m only okay right now because i haven’t been out of it very long. Haven’t had time to discover all the wonderful little things that’ll trigger whatever nightmare of an emotional reaction I have coming, or the substances I’ll take to make them stop.”

“This is exactly why you shouldn’t deal with this alone,” Dr. Calloway says. “I don’t have experience with your specific situation, but I have dealt with patients recovering from mind control. It doesn’t hit immediately for them, either. Sometimes it takes days, even weeks, before something sets them off. You won’t know until it happens.”

“So--what do I do then?”

“You keep going,” Dr. Calloway says. “You let your friends help you, and you keep coming back to see me. I want to put you on a low level medication for anxiety, and I want you to take it _as prescribed,_ and if you have any issues I want you to call me _immediately_.”

“If you’re seriously telling me to do benzos, I should probably tell you I have an actual history of substance abuse,” Eliot says. “You know, for honesty’s sake.”

She laughs. “Yes, I know. We magicians absolutely despise being told to take any sort of medication but will abuse prescription drugs in a second. Which is why I’m going to be monitoring you closely and adjusting as needed. Standing appointment, once a week.”

“Are you sure?” Eliot asks. “I mean, you’re dealing with an entire hospital of crazy. You can’t possibly have time to treat me. Why are you taking such an interest anyway?”

“Because you’re magicians,” Dr. Calloway says. “I know they say magic comes from pain, but I believe magic, and the world in general, would be a much better place if more of us actually got help for our issues. And also because listening to you talk about your fuck-ups is a great deal more interesting than most of my day.”

Eliot’s not sure what to do with that, but he concedes that their lives are probably more interesting than anyone else in this hellhole. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll try it. Now, can we talk about how I’m going to fix things with Q? Because if I can’t do that, all the rest of this is completely pointless.”

\--

As promised, Penny-23 and Julia Travel in just before breakfast. Quentin is, embarrassingly, surprised to see them. His friends had never broken promises to visit; even if something came up, they’d always made sure someone came by, and yet he’s still a little stunned whenever they actually show up.

Julia pulls up a video on her phone and hands it to him, beaming. “Don’t tell Kady about this,” she says. “We were supposed to be getting--uh, supplies. But we got distracted.”

The video starts out shaky, then slowly, Julia and Alice come into focus, waving at the camera. They appear to be in a park. Julia’s in a blue tank top, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and Alice is wearing an _actual T-shirt,_ though her hair is in one of those complicated retro up-dos favored by the Library. “Hi, Q,” Alice says, then ducks out of frame. When she comes back, she’s holding the tiniest rottweiler puppy he’s ever seen. The puppy whines and licks at her face. “Julia said--well, she said you like puppies. I mean, everyone likes puppies.” Julia reaches over and strokes the puppy’s head. “So we’re. Making videos. With puppies.”

Quentin bursts into laughter. His friends--they were on some sort of crazy high-stakes mission, and they deliberately took time to find a random person with a puppy so they could make the world’s most awkward video for him. It’s beautiful.

“We love you,” Julia tells the camera. Alice looks like she’s going to say something, but just smiles instead, and then Julia takes her phone back. The next several minutes consist of Julia filming Alice (in _jeans_ ) and some tall, bald guy (he assumes, the puppy’s owner) tossing a tennis ball for the puppy to chase.

By the time the video’s over, Quentin is crying again.

“Margo said Eliot’s coming by again today,” Julia says carefully, resting her hand on his forearm. “I hope it goes better than yesterday, and I’m sure it will. But I-- _we_ \--wanted to make sure you knew that no matter what, we all love you. No backsliding because Eliot’s an idiot. Okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin promises. “No backsliding. And I love you, too.” He looks up at Penny-23. “All of you.”

Penny looks deeply uncomfortable with Quentin’s affection, but shrugs it off. “Stay strong, Coldwater,” he says, and they Travel out just before the doors unlock for breakfast.

\--

Quentin tries not to watch the clock.

He tries not to feel a perfect, terrible spark of apprehension and hope when he sees it’s half past ten and Eliot must be here, in the building, talking with Dr. Calloway, maybe even about to head out to the ward. He tries to focus on his painting: Alice, from the video this morning, holding the rottweiler puppy. They still haven’t talked about what they are to each other, now, but Quentin kind of thinks they don’t need to. It’s pretty clear Alice figures he was out of his mind when he asked her to get back together, and well. She’s not wrong.

They’re still friends, though. She visits him here in this place even though it makes her all twitchy and she made a video for him even though she was busy with important… whatever they were doing. The painting isn’t very good, he thinks, but next time she visits, he’ll give it to her anyway. She can hang it on the fridge in the penthouse next to the rent demands.

“I see being locked in this place has improved your art skills,” says a familiar voice next to his ear. Quentin drops his paintbrush in the water cup and spins around.

Eliot’s standing there, leaning on his cane, smiling awkwardly. Quentin’s mouth goes dry.

“Can I sit?”

“Please,” Quentin says, nudging the folding chair next to him. “Did you--did you talk to Dr. Calloway?”

“Yep.” Eliot sighs. “I guess I’m joining you in the wonderful land of actually dealing with our problems with a competent professional. It’s all very _adult_.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. He sees Eliot staring at his painting. “Oh--uh. Jules had Twenty-three bring her by this morning. Because I kind of had this huge meltdown yesterday when she came to show me a video of some puppies and now I guess she thinks puppies are the best way to get me to like, feel things. So she and Alice found some guy with a rottweiler puppy and recorded Alice playing with it.”

“That’s. Uh.” Eliot looks extremely confused. Quentin doesn’t blame him; his life hasn’t made much sense to him lately, either. “Good? I’m glad--I was so angry when I thought they weren’t looking out for you, but I’m glad they are now.”

Quentin blinks. “Oh. Yeah, everyone’s been great. I mean, this whole recovery thing is like, a process, but. I really am doing better, I think.”

“Good.” Eliot takes a deep breath. “Listen, Q. I’m sorry. No--shh, don’t say anything, just let me--I fucked up, yesterday. Seeing you in this place, I couldn’t help feeling like it was my fault. Which, yeah, I know, but. Still felt like it. So I panicked and I lashed out and I hurt you and I’m sorry for that, first of all. You’re so brave, braver than I’ll ever be.”

“Eliot--”

“Not done. Hold on.” Another two slow, deep breaths, and he continues. “And I promised myself, when I was reliving my worst memories, that if I ever got out I’d be brave. For you. And so: I love you. I never should’ve tried to pretend I didn’t. I’ve loved you-- _fuck,_ I’ve loved you for _decades,_ but I was so scared I’d fuck it up. And it’s okay if you’ve moved on,” he nods at the painting, “but I had to tell you. Either way, you mean more to me than anyone besides Margo, and I’m sorry for making you think I was anything but proud of you for being here.”

 _Shit._ Quentin tries to breathe, but there’s a massive lump in his throat, and he’s not--he’s not going to start crying, _fuck_ \--but he can’t help it. Eliot’s hands are on his face and his thumbs are brushing under his eyes and he’s laughing, nervous but not cruel.

“Sorry, _fuck_ , I didn’t want to make you cry,” Eliot’s saying, but Quentin doesn’t really hear him. He wants to say--there are so many things he wants to say, but his voice still isn’t working, so instead he leans in and presses his lips to Eliot’s.

It’s a pretty terrible kiss, all things considered. Quentin’s still crying, Eliot’s kind of shaking a lot, and they’re sitting at a crafts table in a mental hospital; Quentin doesn’t even know if this kind of thing is _allowed,_ but he also suspects Dr. Calloway is somewhere behind them watching and won’t let them be interrupted unless, like, hands start wandering.

Eliot pulls away first. “So uh. Was that--?”

“I’m not with Alice,” Quentin says, wiping away the last of his tears with his sleeve, because it’s _important_ that Eliot knows that. “We--me and her, we don’t work. Not like.” He shrugs. “Anyway. What I mean is. I’ve kind of got a lot of shit to work on, obviously, because I’m here, and you just got de-possessed and still have a gaping hole in your stomach. But I want to do the work, and I want to be here for you while you work through yours. It’s probably going to suck, honestly. But--I love you. Too. So I want us to try. Can we--is that something you want?”

Eliot leans in and kisses him, and this time it’s actually _good_ ; sweet and familiar, and Eliot’s hand comes up to grasp the back of his neck and gently tip his head to get a better angle. Quentin rests his palms on Eliot’s chest, his fingers curling into Eliot’s waistcoat. He gasps, just a little, and Eliot uses the opportunity to slide his tongue against Quentin’s.

“Yeah,” Eliot says, when they finally break for air. He rubs his thumb across Quentin’s cheek, and looks at him with such fondness it’s blinding. “That’s something I want.”

Quentin turns his head and presses a kiss to Eliot’s palm. It’ll be hard, he knows; it’ll seem damn near impossible at times. But they are alive, and solid, and this thing between them is beautiful and new, and Quentin knows they’re going to win.


End file.
